


Misdelivery

by Aurora0331



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, E for potty mouth and maybe smut, F/M, Inspired by Atonement, Minor Character Death, Started as a one shot now we here, book canon, come get y'all juice, we'll see, yep definitely smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora0331/pseuds/Aurora0331
Summary: Sandor Clegane is content with his lot as master-at-arms of Winterfell; fighting, drinking and loving Sansa Stark from afar. That is, until he sends her the wrong fucking letter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The plot for this fic is blatantly snatched from one of my favourite books, Atonement, and is predominantly book canon. It takes place after Sansa has married Harry the Heir and retaken Winterfell. Sandor is serving as her master-at-arms and pining after her.

‘Clegane!’

 

Sandor sighed irritably, wiping the sweat from his eyes as he turned to see a scrawny lad of no more than seventeen striding towards him across the training yard. He recognized the boy as some cousin or other of the Umbers, taken into Lady Sansa’s service as a gesture of goodwill. He was also extremely fucking annoying.

‘The fuck do you want?’ Sandor snapped, fist tightening on the hilt of his sparring sword. He hated being interrupted while he was training his men.

‘Lady Sansa wants a full report on the state of the battlements. Today.’

‘Tell Lady Sansa I’m busy training her fucking army of gnats. She’ll have her report tomorrow.’

‘She said you’d say that,’ the boy smirked. ‘She said you’re to have it done today or she’ll speak to the cook about your wine ration.’

Sandor growled and took a few menacing steps towards the messenger, who stumbled backward and tripped on his cloak. ‘I’ll come to collect your report at the dinner bell,’ he stammered, even as he turned tail and ran back towards the keep.

‘Smug little shit,’ Sandor muttered and spat into the dirt. He didn’t mind doing Lady Sansa’s bidding – would lie down and lick her boots like the dog he was if she asked him to – but he hated knowing that she couldn’t spare a few minutes to come and make these requests of him herself. It was foolhardy to expect that, he knew; but Sandor Clegane was a fucking fool when it came to Sansa Stark. He always had been. His eyes flickered up to the windows of the Great Keep, seeking out the one he knew belonged to her solar as if half expecting to see her pale face looking back at him. But the window was empty – a blank, sightless eye reflecting the steel grey of the sky.

 

A fucking fool, indeed.

 

Sandor had left the Quiet Isle without a second thought when he heard that Sansa Stark had retaken Winterfell – even if it was with that dim-witted Hardyng boy at her side as her lord and husband. Sandor had offered her his sword, and had half expected her to use it to cut his own ugly head off – but instead she had offered him the position of master-at-arms of Winterfell, on the condition that he killed Littlefinger for her. He had told her that nothing would bring him more pleasure, and it was only half a lie; watching the light fade out of those cunning eyes had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life, but there was something he wanted more.

 

Sandor turned back to his sparring opponent and raised his sword, ready to attack with renewed vigour. Lady Sansa’s report would have to wait – his blood was up now, and there was no better cure for that than beating the shit out of a few Northmen. Hours later, when he finally sat down at the desk in his small room in the guards’ hall, his muscles were aching and his veins singing with the joy of a good fucking fight.

 

Sandor pulled a sheet of parchment towards him and gripped his quill with thick fingers, composing the report in his head before making a mark. He had plenty to say; that the crenels by the North Gate were crumbling, that there were rats nesting in the guard tower and no one seemed to think it was their fucking job to get rid of them, that the walls looked weak where they met at the Hunter’s Gate… that if he was her husband he’d be fucking ashamed that she was the one seeking reports on the castle defences, that maybe she should wear the breeches and sword belt and drink with the men in the Great Hall. Sandor snorted at that, and put down his quill long enough to take a deep pull on his wineskin. Aye, he had plenty of things to say to Sansa Stark.

 

He stared at the blank parchment a little longer, picked up the quill and scratched:

 

_Lady Sansa  –_

 

Then paused again. He hated writing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t – being the lord of a minor house, his father had taken a perverse pride in having a maester teach his children their letters at an early age. But Gregor had been more interested in fighting by that stage, and so spent the stuffy hours of their lessons tormenting his little brother and making them a waking nightmare. Nonetheless, Sandor had never been ashamed of his handwriting; until now, when he knew that Sansa Stark would be reading it. He drank deep of his wine once more, and then a thought struck him that made him chuckle out loud. He bent over the parchment and wrote:

 

_I heard two soldiers say that your husband spends more time with the kitchen wenches than in your bed. After I knocked their cunt heads together for disrespecting you, I wondered if it was true. Are you lonely, little bird? If you are, know that every night in my dreams I fuck you until you scream my name, and if you were mine I’d never look at another woman for the rest of my days. A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

Sandor slumped back in his chair and surveyed his handiwork, rereading the scrawling lines, before giving another hoarse chortle as he imagined the look on Sansa’s face if she ever saw it. The little bird would have his head off his shoulders before he could blink. A lopsided grin still on his face, Sandor pushed the parchment aside and began a fresh sheet.

 

_Lady Sansa –_

 

 _Crenels at North Gate need mortar. Suggest refortifying Hunter’s Gate_.

 

He went on and on, scratching his way down the page with increasing frustration until finally it was done, and he took a drink before making his mark at the foot of the parchment. Sandor leant back in his chair, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension that had gathered there. Reports and inventories, council meetings, none of this suited him. He wasn’t made for it – preferred solitude and the odd bit of mindless violence, if given the choice. Elder Brother had tried to preach that impulse out of him, but it was ingrained in him now, just as much as his bitterness and fear of fire.

 

Sandor stood, back cracking as he stretched before crossing the room to his washstand and splashing water on his face and neck, scrubbing away the grime and sweat from another long day. As demanding as his new position was, he knew he was lucky to have it and wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, being Winterfell’s master-at-arms provided plenty of opportunity to admire the Lady of Winterfell, albeit from afar.

 

 _You really are a glutton for punishment, dog_ , he thought to himself. Just then, a loud knock on his door roused him from his reflections, and he threw it open to glare down on the Umber boy, who looked decidedly less arrogant than he had that morning.

‘I’m here for the report, Clegane,’ the boy mumbled at his breastplate, not daring to meet his eyes. _Good._

Annoyed at the intrusion, Sandor turned to grab the parchment from his desk, rolling it up hastily and sealing it with his own crude signet. He shoved it at the lad and snarled at him to _fuck off_ before slamming the door in his pale face. Once he was alone again, Sandor allowed himself a small smirk. Upon arriving at Winterfell the Northmen hadn’t trusted him – recognising him as a Lannister dog – and as Sandor’s personality wasn’t exactly charming, he’d known that the only way to win their respect was to create deference with a healthy dose of fear. So far it seemed to be working. He went back to the washstand and dried his face and beard, reflecting on how vastly different his life was now, a far cry from those long-ago days in King’s Landing spent standing behind the little blonde cunt of a king, useless, as that twat Meryn Trant beat poor Sansa Stark in front of the entire court.

 

 _Time to burn that letter_. He turned back to his desk, intending to destroy the evidence of his lust for the Lady of Winterfell.

 

The report was still there.

 

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor Clegane never froze in battle – unless there was fire – but at this moment his body seemed unwilling to respond to the mounting panic in his chest. His blood ran cold as he considered the situation. How long had it been? Three minutes? Five? He would never catch the Umber boy now, not with his damned leg; he’d seen the way the little shit skipped about the place like a spring lamb, so eager to please. But what other option did he have? Leave Winterfell that moment? He wasn’t so bloody yellow as to tuck his tail and run. If he had to lose his head for telling Lady Sansa the truth, there were much worse things to die for; and it was probably better than he deserved. With that thought in mind, Sandor wrenched open the door and hurried out into the night.

 

He only made it as far as the main stairwell of the Great Keep when he almost careered into someone, and upon steadying himself Sandor found that he was standing face to face with grizzled Bronze Yohn Royce – one of the few men he had ever met who stood of a height with him. The older man’s eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in suspicion, a progression that might have been amusing if Sandor wasn’t so preoccupied.

‘Clegane,’ he barked. ‘Just the man I was looking for. The Lady’s asked to see you.’

Sandor’s heart sank, but he gave a grunt of acknowledgement and followed Royce up the stairs, wondering all the while if he might as well be climbing to the headsman’s block.

 

At the door to Sansa’s solar, Royce knocked once, and a faint voice called ‘come’. Sandor followed him into the room.

‘My Lady, the H-,’ Royce cleared his throat. ‘Sandor Clegane.’

Sansa had never once referred to Sandor by his old moniker since he had come to Winterfell, and she cut down anyone who did with a sharp word. In those first days it had embarrassed Sandor, and he had snapped at her that she needn’t trouble herself with defending his bloody honour, for he had none to begin with. And she had replied in a sharp tone that as Lady of Winterfell she would speak for him as she would any of her people. That had shut him up. Gone was the timid girl who had been unable to look him in the eye in King’s Landing; in her stead was a strong and powerful leader, who wasn’t afraid to put men twice her size in their place.

 

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ Sansa was standing at the window with her back to them, and Sandor saw with a pang that there was a roll of parchment clutched tight in her right hand. ‘You may leave us.’

‘M’Lady,’ Royce nodded, turning on his heel and leaving the room. The sound of the door closing behind him was as loud as thunder in the chilling silence he left behind. Sandor noticed that Sansa’s hands were shaking imperceptibly – he wished she would look at him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. The silence stretched. Perhaps he should fall to his knees and beg forgiveness? But no, that wasn’t his way; and if he was to die today he’d not disgrace himself by acting the craven.

 

‘What,’ Sansa spoke then, and her voice was a barely audible hiss over the crackling of the fire. ‘Were you _thinking_.’

Sandor paused. It was a fair question, but the truth was he _hadn’t_ been thinking. ‘You were never supposed to see it,’ he rasped at last, wincing at how lame the words sounded. She rounded on him, and he felt the familiar sensation of being punched in the gut. Sansa always knocked the wind out of him when she looked him in the eye. Sandor couldn’t help but notice, even with the tension of the moment, how beautiful she was when she was angry; her hair whipped around her shoulders like a fiery cape, and her cheeks were flushed a pretty crimson, standing out against the ivory of her throat.

‘Do you have any idea what this could have done?’ she asked him, waving the offending parchment, and Sandor wondered why she hadn’t burned it yet if it was so disgusting to her. ‘What if the boy had read it?’

‘Then you could have taken his head for a traitor and a spy,’ Sandor snapped. He didn’t like the way she was speaking to him; he wasn’t a child; he knew the weight of his mistake.

‘That is _not_ the point,’ Sansa strode around her desk towards him, and Sandor forced down the urge to meet her halfway and take her in his arms. ‘My husband would have you killed for this.’

‘He could try.’

That made her pause, and there was something soft about her eyes when she looked at him – but it was gone in an instant, replaced by the stony mask of propriety she always wore. Her anger seemed to be abating now.

‘Perhaps you are in need of… company. There are many brothels in Winter Town.’

 

Now it was Sandor’s turn to be enraged. ‘I’ve been fucking whores since before you learned to chirp your pretty courtesies, and I don’t need your permission to do it, _my Lady_.’

The last two words came out as a sneer. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he thought he saw her wince. The truth was, Sandor Clegane hadn’t had a woman since before his time on the Quiet Isle; there were no whores there, and somehow since arriving at Winterfell he’d had no desire for them, nor for chasing serving girls. And it was not because he wasn’t hungry for it – he was downright starving – but because there was only one woman he wanted now, and no matter how out of reach she was nothing else would do. She plagued his thoughts in his waking hours, and filled the empty spaces of his dreams. He had resigned himself to fucking his fist for the rest of his days.

‘Forgive me,’ she said softly, and that startled him. _Him_ forgive _her_? ‘I only want to understand what could have possessed you to write something like this.’

His heart softened towards her. She really had no idea what she did to him.

‘Moment of weakness,’ was all he said, and that seemed enough. She nodded once.

‘We’ll speak no more of this,’ she told him, and Sandor waited for her to throw the letter into the fire. Instead, her fist seemed to curl a little tighter around it. ‘You may go.’

Sandor inclined his head. Somehow, he felt a bitter disappointment settling in his belly; which was ridiculous, given that he had fully expected Sansa to order his immediate execution. Things had turned out better than he could have imagined, and yet… and yet.

He turned towards the door.

‘Clegane,’ she stopped him, and her voice sounded smaller than usual; softer, lower. ‘Was any of it true?’

He paused, his hand resting on the heavy wood of the door, and turned to look at her over his shoulder. She stood in the middle of the room, hands folded in front of her, still holding the letter. The firelight was a warm glow behind her, and her eyes shone in her face. _Seven fucking hells_ , but she was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

‘Every word,’ he told her, and then he was gone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't seen the new episode yet and I am DEEPLY CONCERNED for our fave grumpy boi, so wrote a new chapter to distract myself.
> 
> *señorita by JT plays softly*

Sandor didn’t bother going to the Great Hall to eat; he was too churned up inside, too shaken by what had just happened. For one thing, he wasn’t dead. For another, his conversation with Sansa in her solar should have been the closest he’d ever gotten to seeing her heart, even touching it maybe; but somehow she felt further away than ever. He’d laid himself bare with that damned letter, and she had given him nothing. No encouragement, no rejection; only, “we’ll speak no more of this”. He wasn’t sure which curse from the Gods was crueller – his mess of a face, his cunt brother or the eternal damnation that was loving Sansa _fucking_ Stark. Incensed, he stormed about his tiny room, kicking at the furniture before throwing himself on his bed to watch the moonrise through the window. He should have never left the Quiet Isle. His life there may have been an unbearable monotony of boredom and digging, but there had been a peacefulness to it; he had thought of Sansa often, it was true, but she had been just a slip of a girl when he’d last seen her, and if she crossed his mind it was with a pang of guilt, not the fever of desire he felt now. It had been when she met him at the gates of Winterfell, a woman grown, proud and strong and so damned beautiful, that he’d felt it – a fist closing around his black heart and squeezing until it produced a drop of some tender, private emotion, and that was love. Maybe if he’d never seen her again he would have been spared that agony.

 

Just as Sandor was wondering what would be worse – staying at Winterfell or leaving Sansa forever – there was a sharp rap on his door. He leapt up from the bed with the full intention of telling whoever it was to _fuck off before he shoved their head up their own arse_ , but when he wrenched open the door, a pair of arresting blue eyes met his from beneath a deep cowl and he knew he was done for.

‘May I come in?’ Sansa asked him softly, brushing past his body before he even had time to answer. He closed the door behind her and turned to see her looking about his darkened room with interest. Remembering himself, he hurried to light a candle, and she watched him as she said, ‘You’ve given me much to think about; my husband’s dalliances not least of all.’

Sandor realised then that perhaps she had not known that the Hardyng boy was an unfaithful piece of shite. He had been so caught up in worry for his own skin that he hadn’t considered how that would make her feel, and he looked at her with a pained grimace. Sansa waved a hand dismissively.

‘I’ve known for a long time. But I now realise everyone else does, too, and that is a problem.’

Sandor raised an eyebrow, impressed with her despite himself. ‘You deserve better,’ the words were out of his mouth before he had even thought them and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, but Sansa gave him a warm look.

‘He’s _embarrassing_ me,’ she said, and Sandor felt the corner of his mouth twitch with amusement. Of course, she was not the type to cry over something like this; not anymore. Her dreams of handsome princes and true love were long dead. ‘I don’t ask for much,’ her hands raised and fell in a helpless gesture as she went on. ‘You would think a little discretion would not be unreasonable. He can… lift as many skirts as he wants as long as he doesn’t make me look the fool.’

Sandor couldn’t help but snort at her choice of words, even if they made him sad. How low her expectations of men had fallen – and still that selfish twat couldn’t meet them. ‘Send him back to the Vale,’ he suggested. It was not unheard of, he knew; some great ladies barely saw their husbands once a year.

‘So he can go unchecked? Humping everything that moves like a goat in rut?’ Sansa snapped, before clapping a delicate hand to her mouth. This time Sandor laughed in earnest – she looked so mortified at her own boldness. The sound seemed to relax her, and she dropped her hand with a small smile before sinking to sit on the edge of his bed. Sandor leant against his desk, keeping the physical distance between them even as he committed the sight of her there to memory for use in later fantasies.

‘At least he wouldn’t rub your nose in it.’

Sansa inclined her head, as if acknowledging the truth in that statement, and pulled her cloak tighter around her body. ‘You have no fire.’

‘Don’t care for them,’ was Sandor’s wry response, and though he had meant it as a joke she looked at him with thinly veiled sympathy. ‘Don’t do that,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t come here and give me your fucking pity. I’ve no use for it.’

‘Isn’t that what you were giving me? Pity?’ Sansa asked archly, lowering her hood. Her hair was loose, and he longed to wrap it around his hands, to know whether it felt as soft as it looked.

‘What’re you chirping about, now?’ he grunted.

‘Your letter.’

Sandor gave another derisive snort. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, girl. But it’s a damned shame to see fine cunt go to waste.’ He was being deliberately crude, trying to put a wall up. He felt pinned by her gaze – trapped, like an animal in a cage.

Sansa wasn’t responding to his bait, though. She looked away, smoothing a hand across the furs on his bed as if lost in thought. ‘Do you really dream about me?’

 

Sandor’s answer stuck in his throat. He felt that there was no right response – he was no liar, but she had already seen enough of him and he didn’t care to show her more. She didn’t wait for him to speak, though, before she went on, ‘I dreamed of you.’

‘Aye,’ he spat. ‘Dreamed of me, drunk as a dog, pressing a knife to your throat and making you sing for your pretty life?’

‘Amongst other things,’ her eyes met his then, bold as brass, and they were darker than he’d ever seen them, leaving him breathless once again. ‘I never thought I’d see you again. When you rode through the East Gate, it was like seeing a ghost.’

Sandor exhaled through his nose, frustrated. In many ways, he was a ghost; older now, and lame to boot, just an irritable bastard who was well past his prime.

‘A part of me wishes you had stayed dead,’ she said, catching him off guard. ‘You’ve made it very difficult for me. Married life, I mean.’

He narrowed his eyes at her, not sure what she was getting at but feeling increasingly uneasy all the same.

 

‘It’s very hard,’ Sansa sighed, fingers tightening in the furs, ‘to be married to one man and wanting another.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all I’m devastated after last night. Sandor’s scene with Arya was the only good thing in that whole mess and while it was heroic as hell I was not ready. Hands down the best character in the whole show but at least they didn’t do him dirty like they did just about every other character. 
> 
> SMUT WARNING and a few notes on Sansa – I imagine that book Sansa and show Sansa would approach this situation a little bit differently. While book Sansa has definitely been through some shit, she didn’t have the whole Ramsay situation to carry, so although I wrote a show canon fic in which she has the opportunity to finally take control of and explore her sexuality, since this is book canon I feel like Sansa would be more interested in surrendering control to someone she trusts to escape the pressures of her position. So if you’ve read Into My Arms (which now has a follow up fixer upper chapter THANKS D&D) you’ll notice that there’s a bit of a difference there. But either way, Sansa’s not afraid to get her man!
> 
> Also I now realise that other than the ol’ plot device (wrong letter) this is actually nothing like Atonement at all ¯\ _(ツ)_/¯

Sandor worried the inside of his cheek as silence stretched between them. Something didn’t quite add up here; he knew the words, knew what she was telling him, but fell just short of being able to understand why in the seven hells Sansa Stark would want him. Perhaps she had taken his letter as a cruel jape, and was trying to get her own back and make him suffer. It was working.

 

‘Thought you preferred blondes,’ he sneered at last, another barb meant to hurt her, to push her away.

She narrowed her eyes, not missing his reference to Joffrey. ‘And I thought you preferred whores, and yet here we are.’

Even as she spoke, she raised her hand to her throat and began to unlace her cloak. Sandor shifted slightly, uncomfortable. The hard wood of his desk was digging into his thighs, and something else was growing hard as well as he watched the soft fabric fall from her shoulders with a whisper. Sansa was dressed in a plain grey woollen gown, tight at her narrow waist, and Sandor felt a rising need to put his hands there and feel the warmth of her through the cloth.

‘Don’t have much interest in whores anymore,’ he said gruffly, eyes straying from her face despite himself.

‘I know. So my whisperers tell me.’

‘You keeping spies like Littlefinger now?’ Sandor snapped. That irked him.

But Sansa only shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m a little jealous.’

Sandor thought that was fucking rich coming from her, considering that he was the one who had to watch her fawn over her pompous cunt of a husband, and that the idea of Sansa Stark being jealous of a whore was positively laughable – but he was also extremely distracted by the way the candlelight shifted over her collarbones when she moved her shoulders like that. He thought about tracing them with his tongue, wondered what her skin would taste like, and felt his breeches becoming painfully tight. He shifted his weight again.

‘It’s true, what you said in your letter,’ Sansa said as she pulled her hair over one shoulder, exposing the long, white column of her throat in an action that made Sandor stifle a groan. ‘My husband rarely visits my chambers. I am lonely, but it’s not him I crave.’

Sandor’s throat felt dry. He rubbed a hand against his beard, a tension growing in his fingers as his desire to touch her reached fever pitch. She was pushing him to his limit now, and if this was a joke Sansa Stark was about to find out why little girls shouldn’t tease cranky old dogs.

‘I was afraid of you, once. But I shouldn’t have been. You were the only one who tried to help me, who protected me in that awful place. I must have cursed my own foolishness for not leaving with you a hundred times, since.’

 

Sandor realised then that she wasn’t playing with him, after all. Not once, in all the time since his arrival at Winterfell, had she mentioned the night of the Blackwater to him, his offer to steal her away. Her eyes were huge in her face, so sincere they made him ache.

‘If I had gone with you, things would be different,’ her voice came low, barely above a whisper. ‘I would not have been sold to Harry like a brood mare. I might even know what it feels like to be wanted.’

Sandor was standing now, had moved towards her by several feet without even knowing it. He towered over her, fists clenched tight at his side, mere moments away from the thread of his self-control snapping. He was breathing hard, and from the rise and fall of her breast he knew that she was too. He watched Sansa’s eyes roam up his body, flickering from his legs to his chest, to finally reach his face from beneath heavy lids.

 

‘Do you want me, Sandor?’

 

The thread broke. With a growl, Sandor bent, his hand coming out to curl softly around that long white neck as he pressed his mouth to hers. He couldn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman, but he certainly didn’t recall it ever feeling this good. Her lips parted for him almost instantly, and she gave a sweet little sigh that he stole from her and breathed deep into his own lungs. His free hand went to her waist, felt her heat as he had ached to do mere minutes earlier, and she mewled softly when his thumb swept a firm caress along the underside of her breast. Sandor pulled away, just for a moment, to look at Sansa again. He admired the way her lips were swollen with the pressure of his own, the brightness of her eyes and flush in her cheeks.

‘I want you, little bird,’ he rasped.

‘Then show me,’ was all she said, and Sandor pushed her back onto the furs, claiming her mouth again even as he pinned her hands to the bed, his desire taking on a possessive, jealous edge. _Fuck her husband, fuck the lords of the Vale and the North and the all the rest of them_. Now, in this room, Sansa Stark was all his, and he was going to make sure she knew it. As if reading his thoughts, she arched beneath him, spine curving like a cat’s as she pressed herself to him. Sandor pushed his tongue into her mouth and ground his hardness against her thigh, letting her feel just how much he desired her, and she moaned in answer.

 

His head was spinning. Here, in this very bed, he had woken from countless dreams of her, but had never dared hope that they would come true. Perhaps he had fallen asleep earlier, and this was another of those feverish fantasies; if it was, Sandor hoped he never woke up.

 

His hands were at her bodice now, ripping at the laces with increasing frustration until he had her bare to him, pink nipples taught in the frigid room. He gave a low groan before burying his face there, relishing in the silky-soft feel of her skin and the firmness of her breasts. Sansa cried out when he took a nipple in his mouth, and much as he wanted to have her scream the whole bloody guard’s hall down he covered her mouth with one rough hand.

‘Hush, little bird,’ he grunted, moving his attentions to her other breast. ‘You want the whole Northern army bursting in here to see the Hound balls deep in their Lady?’

The way Sansa squirmed beneath him at that, Sandor wondered darkly if perhaps she did; and that sent a fresh wave of blood south to his already painful erection. With his free hand he began to ruck up her skirts, gathering them at her hips before trailing calloused fingers up her thigh to her centre. When he touched her soft curls, Sandor gave a low chuckle.

‘No smallclothes?’

Sansa whimpered against his hand, and he felt an imperceptible squeeze of the muscles in her thighs. He knew what that meant.

‘Bad girl,’ he murmured as he slipped a finger between her legs, pleasantly surprised at the wetness he felt there. A thought struck him – a long harboured fantasy usually reserved for particularly long nights when he couldn’t sleep – and he withdrew his hands from her long enough to rip off a section of her shift. When she opened her mouth to protest, he balled it up and placed it between her lips.

‘Bite down on that,’ he told her, and fell to his knees to hoist her thighs over his shoulders. Moments later, Sansa was screaming her ecstasy into the makeshift gag, and he was grateful for his foresight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I can't believe I thought this wasn't going to be smutty

Sandor Clegane might not have been one of the greatest lovers in Westeros, but he did know how to please a woman. He had tumbled the odd serving girl in his time in King’s Landing, as well as the odd whore, and in appreciation for their willingness to look past his face he usually took the time to make sure they found their pleasure as well. Not to mention, nothing got him harder than watching a woman climax. So when Sansa’s thighs began to tense around his ears and she shivered under his hands, Sandor knew what was coming and decided to toy with her for a little while. Just as she began to bite down on the rag he had stuffed in her mouth, he pulled away from her and grasped her hips to flip her over. She gave a little cry of indignation which quickly gave way to a moan of pleasure as he palmed her ass cheeks, licking her honey from his lips appreciatively. Sansa Stark was just as sweet as he had dreamed, and her little bottom was white as the driven snow, a perfect peach that he longed to take a bite out of.

 

‘Your husband ever tell you you’ve got the nicest ass in the Seven Kingdom’s?’ he asked her, eyes raking up the curve of her spine from his position kneeling behind her. _What a view_. She shook her head, giving a soft little whimper that made his cock throb. He gave in to the urge and leaned forward to press his teeth into the soft flesh, just above the crease where her right thigh began. Sansa squirmed beneath him, and he wondered if she was embarrassed. She shouldn’t be – every inch of her was perfect, Sandor reflected as he ran his hands up her thighs and swiped his tongue over the skin he had just bitten. _Fuck_ , he wanted to eat her up.

‘Just look at you,’ he rasped, leaning back as he placed his hands on her again and spread her, admiring every inch of her – all pink and white, like some sweet confection far too good for the likes of him. This time she was definitely self-conscious, wriggling under his hands as she tried to cover herself. Sandor landed a gentle yet firm slap on her ass as he growled at her to _keep still_ , and to his surprise she immediately obeyed with a soft moan, hands fisting the furs as her back arched. Sandor chuckled and repeated the action, a little harder this time. Sansa made a noise into her gag that sounded suspiciously like _fuck_.

‘Do you like that, little bird?’ he asked in a low voice. Sansa nodded her head frantically, face flushed and half hidden in the furs. Sandor took a deep breath, gathering himself as a wave of arousal threatened to take hold of him. This was too good to be true. He gave her one last spank for good measure, then spread her sweet little slit with his thumbs before leaning forward to spit there. He knew she was wetter than the Trident already, but didn’t want to cause her any discomfort as he slid one, then two thick fingers into her. Sansa all but sobbed in delight as he began to move them in and out of her, feeling her tight little cunt flex around him as he brought her back to the edge he had cruelly left her on minutes earlier, this time with every intention of pushing her over. His thumb grazed the little bundle of nerves just beneath the crown of soft red hair on her mound, and as he coaxed her into climax he talked to her, his voice rough with barely contained desire.

 

‘I’ve been watching you, Sansa. Ever since I came here, I’ve been thinking about all the different ways I’d like to fuck you. I’ve thought about bending you over your desk in your solar and filling this pretty little cunt with my seed, about sitting you on my lap in the stables and letting you ride me like you ride your bay mare… _fuck_ ,’ he grunted as he felt her grow even slicker beneath his attentions. ‘I’ve imagined you coming to my rooms like you did tonight and begging to suck my cock… yes, that’s right, little bird, come for me.’

Sansa gave a muffled wail as she orgasmed, spine a languid curl and head thrown back towards the ceiling before lolling forward onto the bed, shuddering her release.

‘Good,’ Sandor rasped, kissing the two little dimples just above her ass as he gently rubbed her centre, guiding her down the other side. He climbed up her body to nuzzle at her neck, breathing the scent of her and listening to her heavy breathing, the soft little noises of pleasure she was making into her gag. _Seven fucking Hells_ , if he died tomorrow he wouldn’t give two shits – but right now his cock was aching and he desperately needed to finish what Sansa had started when she walked in his door.

 

Or rather, _he_ had started when he wrote that damned letter.

 

Sansa allowed herself to be manoeuvred into the middle of his bed, where Sandor put her on her back and took a moment to admire the way she looked there. Her cheeks were flushed, hair sticking to a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead and lips as red as cherries. She still had the piece of her shift in her mouth, and it looked so arousing that Sandor couldn’t quite bring himself to remove it. Besides, he wasn’t done making her scream just yet. He met her eyes, bright with the fever of desire, and raised his brow in a silent question. Sansa nodded in answer. Sandor, needing no further encouragement, quickly unlaced himself and freed his erection, at last taking himself in hand. He allowed himself a few lazy strokes as he looked at her, half dressed and legs spread for him, _all for him_. Sandor put his hands on her knees and pushed them up and out, opening her like a flower before running the tip of his cock along her slit. They moaned together at the contact, and Sansa bucked her hips eagerly. _Fuck, she really does want me_ , Sandor wondered incredulously through the haze of his arousal.

 

He reached out to touch her cheek. She gazed back at him, a moment of calm in the storm of their desire, and the look was so tender he felt that fist around his heart squeeze a little tighter. _Mine_ , he thought. _Mine, even if it’s just for tonight_. His hand stroked along her jaw, then her throat, resting there as he pushed into her, at last. What followed was purely animal; a primal thing born of their need and the tension of so many undisclosed desires.

 

She grabbed at him as he fucked her, scratching his shoulders and chest like the wolf she was until he pinned her hands above her head with one of his own. But still, she gave as good as she got; Sansa’s hips rolled against Sandor’s as relentlessly as waves on the seashore, and he was worried he might hurt her – but she wanted it as badly as he did, and there was no holding back as their lust finally took physical form. So he gave in, and thrust into her hard, loving every ragged breath she took, every muffled moan, every shift of her perfect pale breasts – he wasn’t very good with words, but perhaps this could be his way of showing her just how wild she drove him. Sandor had a dim thought in the back of his mind that this game was a dangerous one, one that could see him killed, and that spurred him on even more, bringing a possessive desperation to his movements as he planted his knees and pushed himself into her deeper, harder, faster. He felt her begin to clench around him, impossibly tight, and took a fistful of her hair with his free hand as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, ‘you’re mine, little bird.’

 

She came hard, legs locking around his hips as he followed her there, spilling himself inside her before he could think twice about it. He fell against her, still fully clothed but sweating and breathing hard.

‘Sansa,’ Sandor gasped, pulling the gag from her mouth and wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her over him as he rolled across the bed. She purred and stretched in his embrace, heavy-lidded eyes locking onto his.

‘I didn’t know it could be like that,’ she murmured. He could only shake his head in response, and hope that she understood his meaning. _Neither did I._


	6. Chapter 6

Time fell away as Sandor laid there with Sansa in his arms; hours could have passed and he wouldn’t have known it, though in reality it was probably only minutes before she began to gather herself, lacing up her bodice and moving away from him to brush the tangles out of her hair with her fingers. Sandor felt her absence acutely, and as he watched her put herself to rights the glorious haze of what he had just done – _fucked Sansa fucking Stark_ – began to melt away, leaving only sorrow and cold barbs of jealousy to pierce his heart. Of course, she would not stay. She had gotten what she wanted, and though he tried to remind himself that even one hour with her was more than a dog like him deserved he couldn’t shake the bitterness that rose in his throat to choke him.

 

‘I should be getting back,’ Sansa said softly as she rose from the bed. Sandor tucked himself back in his breeches and sat on the edge of the mattress, glaring up at her. He felt hurt, and resented that she could do that to him.

‘Going to go kiss your pretty husband while my seed still runs down your thighs?’ he snapped, thinking even as he said it that he really was a horrible bastard. Sansa seemed to share the sentiment, for she drew back a hand and slapped him, hard, across the unburnt side of his face. Sandor was too stunned to do anything more than stare at her, and when he saw tears in her eyes he cursed his own mean mouth and ugly temperament.

‘Don’t _ever_ speak to me like that,’ she hissed, blinking so that a flurry of fat droplets skimmed down her cheeks. Sandor ached to kiss them away, but he also felt a little like crying himself. He watched her snatch up her cloak and throw it around her shoulders. There was a war going on within him; the cruel and callous Hound wanted to sneer at her, to push her away to protect himself from the terrible pain and envy she was making him feel, while Sandor Clegane… Sandor Clegane wanted to kiss her, to hold her and give her all the love and devotion she deserved and was so starved of. He tried to remember the lessons the Elder Brother had taught him and push the Hound away, but in a strange way that part of him was as much his shield as it was his curse. And it always seemed in win in the end.

‘Got what you came for, then?’ he rasped, looking away from her.

‘Sandor…’ Sansa murmured reproachfully, taking a step towards him.

‘Spare me,’ he snapped, standing to his full height and pushing past her to stride towards the door. ‘Every wench should be fucked by a real man once, and it’s no surprise your twat of a husband isn’t up to the task. Lucky you have a loyal dog in your employ, isn’t it, my Lady?’

He yanked the door open and held it for her, jerking his head towards the yawning blackness of a Northern night, his cheek still stinging where she had slapped him. But Sansa wasn’t moving.

‘What would you have me do?’ she asked, gesticulating wildly as if hoping to pluck the answer from thin air. She wasn’t crying anymore. ‘Kill my husband?’

Amazed at her boldness and a little impressed, Sandor quickly shut the door again before rounding on her.

‘Order me to do it,’ he growled. ‘It’d be a fucking pleasure.’

‘If you do that, you’re as good as dead,’ Sansa sighed.

'So you'd rather I made a cuckold of him?'

'I'd rather you were alive,' the edge in Sansa's voice cut through him like a knife through butter, and Sandor wondered again at how drastically the years had changed her. She would stand her ground, and he knew there was no point in arguing with her. Sandor gave a deep sigh.

'You want to play him at his own damn game, that's your choice. But if you throw a dog a bone, don't act so bloody shocked when he doesn't want to give it up.'

Sansa gave a soft little smile; for all his rough speech, there had been a sentiment there that she did not miss.

'You needn't give me up,' she reached out to take his hand.

'Aye,' Sandor spat, withdrawing from her touch. Love truly was a cruel mistress. 'Only share.'

This time it was Sansa's turn to sigh, and she drew up her hood, letting the cold mask of the Lady of Winterfell take the warmth from her eyes. Sandor watched it happen, and the thought struck him that perhaps they were not so dissimilar after all. She was a changeling, just as he was; wearing the persona like armour. 

'I'll not stay here and bicker,' she said as she swept past him. 'You know my mind. Come to me when you've made up your own.'

 

And with that, she was gone, leaving Sandor alone in his room that still smelled faintly of sex and her own clean, soap-and-lavender perfume.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couple of lil baby chapters before we get into the good stuff! thank you so much for all the kind words and kudos, you guys are inspiring me and keeping this fic alive <3

For the next week, Sandor fastidiously avoided all contact with Lady Sansa. He still caught glimpses of her from a distance – that couldn’t be helped, she seemed to be fucking everywhere these days – but he took his meals in his room, did not attend council meetings, and made use of that little Umber shitstain whenever he needed to get a message to her. But the absence of her didn’t make things any easier.

  
Sandor Clegane was a man in torment. Every waking minute his mind was constantly invaded by thoughts of her; those sweet little sounds she had made, the way she looked in the candlelight, her eyes meeting his as he pushed himself into her. He remembered infinitesimal details; the colour of her nipples, the little freckle beneath her right ear – how her sweat had dampened the soft, wispy hairs at her forehead so that they sprang into tight curls. At times he swore he could still taste her on his tongue, the salty-sweetness of her cunt, and it drove him mad. He threw himself into training with a tenacity that his men found frightening, but Sandor didn’t care; all he wanted to do was push her from his mind, and if that meant wearing himself to the bone from dawn ‘til dusk then so be it.

 

But at night, there was no escaping her. She came to him in his dreams, just as she had done before; only now the visions had a sharpness to them, his memory adding definition to his fantasies. Several times a night he would wake in a sweat, his skin feverish even in the chill of his chamber. Sandor would throw off the furs and take himself in hand, desperate to ease the ache he felt in his very bones. But the release always rang hollow, and afterwards an emptiness would open up within him, gnawing at him like hunger pangs as he remembered how she had removed herself from his embrace and put herself together like nothing had ever happened.

 

He knew she was right, of course. There was nothing else to be done; she was a married woman, and great ladies with great lord husbands couldn’t just run off with their castellans. That sounded like one of the songs the little bird had once loved so well, and they were nothing but foolish lies – he had told her as much countless times, half a lifetime ago. It seemed now that he was the fool, wishing for something that could never be. Sansa Stark would never be his woman, as he had written in that thrice-damned letter; he should count himself lucky to be her dog, even if it meant pining after her, trotting at her heels and eating the scraps she threw to him from her seat at the high table.

 

‘ _Gods_ ,’ Sandor hissed, clenching his fists at the thought, pausing in the activity of cleaning his sword. He’d brought himself so fucking low for her, and the worst thing was he’d do it again, and again, and again; as long as he lived, he’d be doing her bidding. If he thought the Lannisters had made a mongrel out of him, it was nothing to what he had become under Sansa Stark.

 

A dark thought struck him as he ran his finger along the edge of the blade lightly, testing the sharpness of the steel. How hard would it be to take out that little blonde cunt, anyway? Sandor had seen him sparring – though the boy was in good shape, he lacked the strength and endurance to best anyone beyond a hedge knight, and was certainly not experienced enough to predict his opponent’s next move, which was half the battle. It would be easy for Sandor to run him through, but Sansa had the right of it; he’d be dead long before he even had the chance to reap his reward. What, then? Make it look like an accident? Short of knocking him out of the Maester’s Tower, Sandor couldn’t think of any way to do such a thing that wasn’t totally abhorrent. Poison was a craven’s weapon, and as for smothering the boy in his sleep… well, one needed a certain degree of finesse to pull off something like that, and that was one thing Sandor did not have in abundance.

 

No, this was a problem that called for a sharper mind than his. This was a problem for Sansa. It was only a matter of time before he gave in to his urges and came crawling back to her; he knew that. But he’d be damned if he was going to play second fiddle to that lordling prick – if she wanted him, they’d need a plan.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to LadyInWaiting, thank you for never giving up on me and waiting patiently for me to finally get my shit together and update xxx

Sandor was out riding beyond the walls of Winterfell when he finally came face to face with Sansa. It was a bright morning, crisp and cool, a light dusting of frost still trimming the grey-green grass and reflecting the watery sunlight in ethereal prisms. Sandor had paused in the action of surveying the outer battlements to breathe deep the clean, cold air and savour the silence, before it was broken by a soft whinny, and Sansa rounded the Maester’s Tower on her bay mare, looking for all the world like some kind of forest nymph; an otherworldly creature with skin like fresh snow. She smiled at him, and Sandor exhaled in a rush, enchanted. The mare’s dainty feet picked their way through the grass towards him, and that was when Sansa’s guard appeared behind her, breaking the spell she had cast. Sandor felt his habitual scowl descend over his face.

 

‘So much for a bit of fucking peace and quiet,’ he snapped, turning his head away to squint at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. If only he could run to them; he’d live in a cave somewhere and never have to speak to another human in his life. Never have to see Sansa again. Stranger shifted beneath him, sensing his master’s discomfort.

 

‘My thoughts exactly,’ Sansa quipped, the warm mirth in her tone belying the sharp words. ‘But, since you are here, Clegane, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a ride around the walls with me? I want you to show me these crenels you find so concerning.’

 

Sandor only grunted in response, but Sansa took it as acquiescence. He couldn’t very well refuse. And when Sansa turned to dismiss her guard, Sandor felt a cold rush of what he could only describe as fear. He didn’t want to be alone with her; didn’t trust himself not to fall at her feet and offer her everything he had, sword, body and soul. He allowed himself a glance at her, the turn of her head elongating that pale throat as she ordered her man away, and _Gods_ if it didn’t make him ache with the memory of how warm and silky it had felt beneath his hand, her lifeblood pulsing against his fingers. It was a mistake to look at her, though; because when she turned back to him, he was caught in the crosshairs of her sea-blue stare, so bright in the morning sunlight, and he knew he was utterly and completely fucked.

 

They started around the walls in silence, Sansa’s mare keeping a nervous distance between them as Stranger was prone to bite. This usually suited Sandor fine – it kept the soldiers from riding too close to him and spared him their brainless chatter – and it suited him just as well now, because it kept him from giving in to the incessant urge to reach out and touch Sansa’s hair, loose in the breeze. He waited for her to speak, but she didn’t – only tugged lightly on the reigns of her horse and began to drift away from the stone walls of Winterfell towards a thick copse on a rise, and he followed her without question, glad to be away from prying eyes.

 

Out here, where the country opened up around them, so wild and uncultivated, it was easy for Sandor to slip into a fantasy in which Sansa was not Lady of Winterfell and he not the Hound – only a man and his woman, free to roam where they wished, bathe in the streams and fuck under the stars…

 

_Damn_. He shook himself, and recalled his wine-fuelled ramblings of a few nights earlier, when he had convinced himself that killing Harry was not the way to Sansa’s heart. Then, he had decided that they needed to plot his downfall together; but he was loathe to bring it up now in the perfect silence of this private moment with her. He chanced another glance towards Sansa, and saw that she was flushed, a warm glow of exertion blooming across her high cheekbones. It triggered a rush of memories of a time when he had seen that blush in a very different setting, and damn him if it didn’t send his blood rushing southwards.

 

‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ Sansa spoke then, as if she knew his thoughts. Sandor hoped she didn’t, because they were filthy.

 

‘Been busy,’ he grunted.

 

‘Of course,’ she shot him a knowing smile, and it made his hackles raise. What the fuck did she know about how much he’d suffered since that terrible, glorious night?

 

‘Aye,’ Sandor snapped. ‘Maintaining the castle defences, since your useless whelp of a husband can’t seem to manage the job. Seems I’m making up for his incompetence in all manner of things.’

 

He had meant it as a slight, a barb to hurt her as she had hurt him, but Sansa threw her head back and laughed. ‘Yes,’ she chuckled. ‘How cruel the world is, to give him the name of a high lord, when there is someone far more deserving.’

 

Sandor's mouth twitched with displeasure. He hadn't meant it in that way, but he couldn't deny that the idea had struck him once or twice, late at night when he struggled to sleep and chased useless wisps of thoughts around and around in his mind like rabbits. Nevertheless, he spoke the truth when he spat into the grass and rasped;

 

‘Never cared for titles or lordships. Don't make you any more or less of a man. Plenty of cunts walking around with old names and knighthoods that aren't worth the shit on their boots.’

 

‘That's true,’ she replied thoughtfully. ‘But an old name can mean something.’

 

‘Trust a Stark to say that,’ Sandor said with a rough bark that was too bitter to be a laugh.

 

‘The name of Stark gives the Northmen hope,’ Sansa countered. There was a pregnant pause, in which she thoughtfully chewed her bottom lip, and Sandor tried not to think about how pillow-soft her mouth had been under his own. They were entering the copse now, and the light filtered down through the treetops in golden shafts, illuminating the many colours of her hair. In his eyes, she was the forest nymph again.

 

‘Would you say,’ Sansa spoke again, ‘that the lords of the Vale have more faith in Harry or myself?’

 

Sandor shrugged. He was thinking about how her cunt tasted, and didn't care to discuss her husband just now.

 

Unperturbed, Sansa went on. ‘I thought that having Baelish killed was a risk, but the lords didn't bat an eyelid. Bronze Yohn seemed positively pleased.’

 

‘Littlefinger was lower than a snakes arsehole. Nobody mourned that cunt.’

 

Sansa smiled ruefully at him, dappled light falling across her shoulders as she slowed her mare. ‘Thank you. Again. For… disposing of him.’

 

‘Told you before, little bird, no need to chirp your thanks at me. It was a fucking pleasure.’

 

Sansa didn't answer right away - only looked at him with eyes bright and lips parted. Her gaze flickered over the length of his body, and he felt naked under it; exposed. Not just his skin, but his heart, too.

 

‘I don't sleep well,’ she murmured suddenly. ‘Not since…’ Sansa looked away then, a blush rising up her throat from beneath her collar, and Sandor ached to know how low it went.

 

‘Nor me,’ he admitted, though the words came out as little more than a hoarse scrape of steel on stone, so choked was he with emotion.

 

‘Have you thought about what I asked?’ she asked him, sounding breathless. Unable to bear the tension of the moment, the heavy silence under the trees and white-knuckled way she held the reigns, Sandor dug his heels into Stranger's belly and urged him to walk on. Sansa followed, waiting for his answer.

 

‘Aye,’ he gruffed at last. ‘Thought of fuck all else. Damn you, woman!’ his sudden outburst surpised even him as he rounded on her, Stranger's head tossing at the volume and bite of his voice. ‘Haven't I given you enough? I'm your dog, and now you want me for your plaything, too?’

 

‘So tell me no,’ she stammered, eyes wary now as she shrank beneath his thunderous gaze. ‘Reject me, Sandor, if the idea is so hateful to you.’

 

Sandor laughed bitterly and shook his head. ‘You know I can't, little bird. You know that very fucking well.’

 

She didn't deny it, at least. But she seemed to soften, urging her mare a little closer. ‘I don't want it to be like this. If I could choose a different path, I would. But I never had that luxury, and _you_ know that.’

 

Flashes of King's Landing came to mind; old memories from another life, made painful again like a wound reopened. Sansa, so young and so tender, declaring her love for Joffrey like a mummer reciting lines, even as the light behind her eyes flickered and died and fresh bruises flowered on her skin; and him, standing by and letting it happen. _Useless, craven cunt._

 

‘Aye, I suppose not,’ he said, the rage gone from his voice. Sansa came closer still, though the mare fidgeted nervously at the proximity to Stranger. Sansa leaned across the distance between them, and placed a hand on his knee. He swallowed and stared at it. Words bubbled up in his throat before he could stop them. ‘Sansa, you're a great lady with the power of the North and the Vale behind you. You're not as trapped as you think.’

 

Sansa sighed. ‘I know. But, Sandor… I don't know what to do. Harry's a dreadful bore and an embarrassment, but he's never hurt me. I can't justify killing him just so that I can get what I want.’

 

Sandor forced himself to bite back his retort - there was no point in reminding Sansa that while she still had some softness to her heart, he wouldn't think twice about putting Hardyng in the ground for standing between him and her. He’d killed men for far less. In fact, in his mind, there was no better reason in the world for putting his sword through a man than to get his face between Sansa's legs again. But he didn't tell her that. Instead, he said, ‘there are other ways.’

  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of fluff and sweetness since this fic has been p angsty so far xxx again thank you for all your beautiful comments and kudos!

‘Send him away,’ Sandor told her again. ‘Let him sire all the bastards he wants at the Eyrie.’

Sansa withdrew her hand and straightened up on the horse, shaking her head slightly.

‘It’s not that simple,’ she sighed. ‘He’s pigheaded. If I suggest he go back to the Vale while I rule the North, he would see it as a slight on his manhood and refuse.’

‘So make him think it’s his idea,’ Sandor suggested. He didn’t care much for politics, but he knew how men’s minds worked.

Sansa looked at him, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Plant the seed,’ she mused. Sandor knew that the little bird had learned much and more from Littlefinger, and though he hated that slippery bastard he felt almost grateful for him now as he watched Sansa mull over the idea. ‘Perhaps if I make mention of the hill tribes and the need for a strong hand to bring them into line, he will see it as an opportunity to prove himself.’

‘Aye,’ Sandor nodded in agreement. It was a good plan; he could just see the pompous little shit now, riding out of Winterfell puffed up with the promise of glory. It was a sweet fantasy, seeing the back of that blonde head. ‘He’ll have all the wine and whores he wants; should keep him busy.’

Sansa inclined her head, and looked at him shrewdly. ‘And if I should bear a child?’

He had not expected that. It was not something he had even allowed himself to consider, though now the image of Sansa holding a black-haired bairn rose unbidden to his mind. He shrugged, a heavy lift and fall of one shoulder that seemed more hopeless than dismissive. ‘We’ll be careful.’

It was all he could offer. Sansa turned her face away, looking into the trees with a pinched expression. Sandor thought he saw the shine of unshed tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away as she said in a low murmur, ‘and will that be enough for you?’

He knew what she meant. This way, Harry would be out of Winterfell and out of her bed – but she would still be his wife, and he could come back to claim her at any time. She would never truly be Sandor’s; they would always be forbidden, always sneaking around under the cover of darkness, avoiding each other’s eyes in public and living in fear of discovery. _Would that be enough for him?_ His first instinct was to say, yes, of course, it was more than a dog like him deserved – and Sandor had certainly never expected to have a woman in his life at all – but there had once been a time when Sandor thought that a mere taste of Sansa’s lips would let him live out the rest of his days as a happy man. He had been wrong, of course; now that he’d been with her, there was nothing in the world that could satisfy his hunger but _more_ , more Sansa, in his bed every night and by his side every day. He had not known that he was a jealous creature until he had something he didn’t want to lose.

So would it be enough? To know that she was not truly his; to never have her on his arm, to spill his seed on her belly or else watch her drink bitter moon tea every time they coupled?

No.

It would not be enough.

 

His silence was all the answer that Sansa needed. She seemed to pull herself together, the pain fading from her face as she squared her shoulders. ‘An annulment, then. Or his death. Nothing else will do.’

Sandor felt something in his chest, then; a shattering, as of the hard shell around his heart falling away in remnants. How foolish, how petulant all his self-pity seemed now as he looked at this beautiful woman and realised just how much she was willing to risk to be with him, scarred, bitter and ugly as he was. It was humbling; a huge realisation that fell heavy on his chest, squeezing his heart until it was fit to burst and threatening to bring tears to his eyes. Wordlessly, Sandor dismounted from Stranger’s broad back and crossed the clearing towards Sansa, never breaking her gaze as he took the mare’s reigns in one hand and caught her foot in the other, fingers wrapping gently about her ankle. His callouses caught the fine wool fibres of her stockings, but Sansa didn’t seem to care – her cheeks were flushed again, breast rising and falling in short, shallow breaths as she looked down at him, a queen regarding her subject. _Queen of my heart_ , Sandor thought, even as he cursed himself for a blithering, cunt-struck fool. She was making a fucking Florian of him, after all his mocking and cursing her love of songs.

Sandor raised Sansa’s foot gently, bowing his head to press a kiss to the little bone at the inside of her ankle. Above him, he heard her exhale slowly, a tremor rendering the soft sound staccato, and repeated the action again and again, moving slowly up the slender length of her calf as he pushed her skirts back with an open palm. He felt the shift and flex of muscle beneath her skin, the hard bar of bone, and the softness of the flesh behind her knees, smooth and supple even through her stockings. Sandor committed it all to memory. He inhaled her, drank her in, and as he reached her thigh his hands came up to wrap about her waist, pulling her from the horse to slide down his body like water, an elegant stream of long limbs and red, red hair that culminated in the tenderest of kisses, a slow glide of her lips across his. Here, in the silent, green glow of the wood, they shared a moment more perfect than Sandor would ever have believed possible in the cruel chaos of their world.

 

They both knew the risks of being together, here in the open and in broad daylight, too. But, somehow, it didn’t seem to matter; indeed, in Sandor’s case it excited him further – he was hard as iron as he laid Sansa down on the dewy grass and pressed his lips to every inch of bare skin he could reach. She was giggling under his attentions, and it was so different to the last time they had lain together; the urgency of desires long undisclosed had given way to something gentler, more reverent. Sandor didn’t dare to call it _love_ , not even in his mind – but all the same, there was a part of him that knew very well what this was. He stripped her of her boots and stockings, kissed at the bare skin they left behind even as gooseflesh mottled her lovely pale skin in the cool air. He took off her dress, and allowed her to undress him, too, something he had rarely done with a woman before. It had always seemed unnecessary, but now as he lowered his body onto Sansa’s and felt the hot press of her belly against his – her breasts against his chest – he could imagine few things sweeter. They lay like this for a long time and indulged in languid kisses as they warmed one another with their bodies. Sandor felt no great rush to bury himself in her, despite his insistent erection. Her arms wrapped around his abdomen were comfort enough, her hands drawing lazy patterns across the breadth of his back. She tasted of summer fruit, and the sun highlighted the hazel flecks in her blue eyes as it climbed higher in the sky, towards noon. He wished he could stay there forever.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Two days later, she came to him again.

 

Sandor didn’t have the strength to deny her, not when she looked at him from beneath the shadow of her hood with such pleading hunger. Not when he needed her so desperately himself. His whole body hummed like a harp string when she was near, and he thought of little else but the feel of her skin and the scent of her hair. Sansa brushed past him into his room, and the moment the heavy door was closed to the outside world her arms were around his neck, pulling him down to meet her hot little mouth as she kissed him ravenously.

 

After, Sandor sat propped against the stone wall, naked as the day he was born and legs spread lazily across his unmade bed, with the Lady of Winterfell perched happily in his lap. The air in the room hung heavy with the smell of sex, and they were both sticky with exertion, but Sandor couldn’t give two shits. His half-hard member rested against the pearly skin of her thigh where she straddled him. He liked how it looked there. A few rolls of Sansa’s hips against him, and he would be ready to fuck her again in an instant – but, for now, he contented himself with admiring his little bird’s body in the candlelight. It felt precious, this moment, and he wondered whether she had ever made herself so open, so vulnerable, with another man before. He raised a hand and ran the knuckle of his index finger along the underside of one breast, marvelling at how the skin there had perhaps never seen the light of day until their woodland tryst. It seemed a shame, to hide such holy perfection from the world; but, as Sandor was fast learning, he was a jealous bastard and didn’t like the idea of anyone else seeing Sansa’s naked glory.

He traced his way down the centre of her belly, noticing the soft dusting of translucent hair there, so fine it was barely tangible to his calloused fingertips. Sansa gave a soft sigh, and Sandor looked up to meet her eyes. Such fondness burned there that he felt almost choked by it.

 

‘Sandor,’ she murmured, fingers splitting and combing the coarse hair on his chest. ‘What would have happened if I had left with you the night the Blackwater burned?’

Sandor chewed the inside of his cheek pensively. If truth be told, he had wondered the same thing himself, many times. A hundred different scenarios came to mind, some terrible and haunting; in which they were caught and he was killed, or in which Sansa came to some tragic death on the road and he had to live with the memory. Others were happier; Sansa growing from a scared, downtrodden girl into the strong woman she was now – perhaps in the Riverlands or some safe place across the sea – with him to watch over her. He had conjured those fantasies often in the suffocating silence of the Quiet Isle. She might even have come to want him as she did now.

But Sandor had seen enough of this world to know better than that. Likely, he would have managed to get her to her family at Riverrun, or perhaps the Eyrie, and then he would be dismissed, possibly with a bag of gold for his troubles. However grateful they might be to him for delivering her, Sansa’s family would never have seen fit to allow a Lannister dog to continue sniffing around her. And so he would be sent away, to drink and fight wherever the wind blew him, and Sansa would probably have ended up in the exact same position she was in now.

But looking into Sansa’s eyes now, so wide and wanting and somehow girlish in their anticipation, Sandor could not bring himself to tell her that. He was no liar, had never had been, but perhaps this was that secret and powerful emotion called _love_ that made him want to spare her the harshness of the truth. He raised a hand to brush her hair over her shoulder, then gently caressed the skin there with an open palm.

‘I would have taken care of you, little bird,’ he rasped, cursing himself silently at how choked with sentiment he sounded. ‘But, see, you’ve taken care of yourself just as well.’

His hand passed over the elegant ridge of Sansa’s collarbone and down the long expanse of her back, eliciting a shiver from her.

‘Could you have loved me?’

The question hung heavy in the air – Sandor felt the weight of it on his chest. _As I love you now_ , he thought, but could not say it. Could never say it.

‘No use dwelling on the past,’ he told her. It came out harsher than he had intended, but perhaps that was for the best. He felt her shoulders drop almost imperceptibly, and knew it was not the answer that she had wanted; but that was more than he could bear to give just now.

‘I suppose I should be grateful,’ Sansa whispered, though she did not meet his eyes and focused instead on his sternum. ‘I never thought I would see you again, and yet here you are. I was just a girl, then, and so scared. I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you.’

Sandor cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. ‘And what reason did I give you to trust me?’ he asked her, an edge to his voice now. ‘I went out of my way to frighten you. I stood by while those cunts beat you, tormented you, I –‘

‘That is not true,’ Sansa cut him off sharply, rising to her knees and cupping his face with such intensity that Sandor was stunned into silence. ‘You protected me as well as you could, and you risked your own life to do it. You were my only friend in that Gods forsaken place.’

‘Is that how you remember it?’ he snorted, though secretly moved by her passion. Inexplicably, he felt his cock beginning to swell between them. _Traitor_.

‘Will you ever stop this?’ Sansa fairly shook him in her exasperation. ‘Will you ever let me in?’

 

Sandor could not speak right away. He was feeling too much. Sansa had him pinned, helpless, and she was tearing him asunder – trying to reach something inside of him that he wasn’t even sure existed anymore. He had spent a lifetime building walls around every soft, gentle part of his soul and here she was, a slip of a woman, attempting to bring those walls down. His hands went to her waist, desperate for purchase on something tangible, his fingers gripping the soft flesh there a little harder than necessary. Sandor felt trapped in her gaze, and to his own consternation felt hot tears gathering in his eyes.

‘I can’t,’ Sandor growled, grip tightening still further.

Sansa sighed, pressing the length of her abdomen against his as she leaned in to kiss him. ‘You can,’ she breathed against his lips, even as she slipped a hand between them and guided the tip of his swollen member to her own sex, still slick from their earlier coupling. Despite himself, Sandor moaned low in his throat as her flesh parted for him and she sank slowly down his length, deliciously tight and hot. He slid his hands from Sansa’s waist to her ass, filling his palms with the softness of her and spreading her gently as he allowed her to set their pace. He would never grow tired of this. Her tongue moved against his in a wicked glide, and just as Sandor began to lose himself to desire, Sansa pulled back just enough to murmur the words, ‘let me love you.’

 

It was with a feral, animal sound that was half groan, half sob that Sandor pushed Sansa onto her back and covered her with his body, desperate for her and so terrified at the same time. He wrapped his arms around her ribcage and planted his knees, fucking into her harder than he had before but with no intention of hurting; only showing her what he couldn’t bring himself to voice. Sansa held him close, murmuring tender words, and where his cheek pressed against hers he felt the wetness of tears that might have been his, or hers, or both.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys! It’s about to get juicy. A quick note on this chapter; Greatjon Umber did die in the TV show but as far as we know in the books he is still alive and being held prisoner at the Twins. I would like to think he survived and gets back to hanging out at Winterfell! Also Lyanna because I love Lyanna and Sansa needs a dope gal pal.

The next evening, Sandor was in his room, having avoided dinner and the subsequent temptation to stare at Sansa. When a knock sounded at his door, his heart leapt for a moment at the thought that it might be her – but the blows were too loud, too heavy to have been made by her little fist. He pushed himself to his feet and opened the latch, thick fog swirling in about his ankles and a cold draught creeping into the corners of the room. On his doorstep stood the formidable figure of Bronze Yohn Royce, his face cloaked in shadow, making his expression unreadable.

‘Clegane,’ he barked. ‘If you’ll follow me. The Lady requests your presence in the Godswood.’

Sandor took his swordbelt from where it hung by the door and followed Royce out into the night, stomach twisting with nerves. _What was the little bird doing?_  Stealing into his chambers in the dead of night was one thing, but having Royce fetch him..? So preoccupied with his thoughts was he that he barely noticed when the older man began to speak to him.

‘You’ll speak of this to no one, Clegane,’ Royce was muttering. ‘I do not need to tell you what I will do if I find you have betrayed the Lady’s trust.’

‘Shut your hole, Royce,’ Sandor snapped, instantly enraged at the presumptuousness of such a statement. ‘I’ve known her since you were changing little Lord Arryn’s smallclothes.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Royce ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Back when you were a Lannister dog, panting at Joffrey’s heels.’

Both men fell silent after that. Sandor was sorely tempted to steal the last word, but felt that a tense kind of truce had been reached, and let it lie for Sansa’s sake. He knew she trusted the old man, and for all his barbs and insults Sandor had a begrudging respect for Royce.

They walked together past the armoury and the crypts as Sandor’s anticipation grew. By the time they reached the entrance to the Godswood, he had imagined close to a hundred different reasons as to why she would call him here, but could not settle on one that seemed plausible.

The fog was thicker here, a foot of dense mist carpeting the forest floor and parting as they walked beneath the heavy boughs. Sandor never quite felt welcome here; it was an old place that made him think of ancient rituals and people long dead, and whenever he entered it he had the uneasy feeling that he was about to witness something he was not meant to. It was quiet here, too – their soft footfalls on dead leaves were further muffled by the fog, and the thick foliage drowned out any sound from the courtyards of Winterfell beyond the walls. Sandor shivered, then cursed himself for a superstitious fool. It was only an old wood, after all.

Royce led him through the trees until they reached the heart tree, the white of its bark almost glowing in the darkness. Beneath it, her red hair framing her pale face in an oddly beautiful reflection of the tree behind her, stood Sansa, back straight as a poker and hands clasped before her. To her right was little Lyanna Mormont – Sandor had barely spoken to the girl, but knew that she sat on Sansa’s small council and that she was as feisty as they came. She reminded him of Arya, and he felt a pang in his heart at the thought. To Sansa’s left stood the hulking figure of Greatjon Umber, his shock of white hair enough to identify him if his enormous size had left Sandor in any doubt. He had heard that the Greatjon had barely been greying when he was taken prisoner at the Twins – but years spent in a cell could change a man.

In many ways, though, the Greatjon still lived up to his reputation – he loved a fight, and a drink, and he had more fealty to the North and House Stark than Sandor had seen in any other bannerman. It all began to fall into place for Sandor, then; Sansa had gathered her most trusted supporters here, under the cover of darkness. She was up to something.

 

‘Clegane,’ Umber barked, by way of greeting. ‘I hear you’ve been terrorizing my nephew.’

Sandor grunted. ‘He’s always in the fucking way.’

Umber, forever in good humour, chuckled and inclined his head, as if in agreement. Sansa crossed the clearing to welcome them both, taking first Royce’s hand and clasping it between both of hers, then moving to Sandor to do the same. It was an intimate gesture, and the power of it didn’t escape him – by doing so, she was showing them that she trusted them and saw them as equals, but also that in her position she had the same strength as any man and would use it if need be.

As Sansa wrapped her cold hands around his, she leaned in imperceptibly and whispered, ‘I had to know, before I did this. I had to know that you loved me.’

‘I’ve said no such thing,’ he muttered before he could stop himself, even as he cursed his cruel and foolish tongue.

But Sansa only smiled at him knowingly, her eyes equal parts fond and sad as she squeezed his hand. ‘You didn’t have to,’ she breathed, and then she was moving away again, back to her place beneath the heart tree.

 

‘My Lords and Lady,’ she began, her even tone carrying through the clearing. ‘I have called you here to discuss a matter which is both sensitive and confidential. I trust that you will all respect my wishes, and never speak of it to any other beyond this circle,’ Sansa paused and surveyed the small group, eyes hard with the unspoken promise of retribution should her orders be disobeyed. Sandor loved to see her like this – steady, commanding, so sure of herself. A born leader. Sansa went on, ‘I trust you all with my life. You have proven yourselves true friends of House Stark time and time again, and it is for that reason I have asked you here to offer counsel on a difficult issue; that of my husband, Harrold.’

There was a long silence. Sandor looked quickly from one face to the next; the Greatjon looked puzzled, Lyanna amused, and Royce almost bored. Just as Sandor began to wonder what kind of explanation Sansa was going to offer, the Mormont girl spoke up.

‘At last,’ Lyanna scoffed, hand resting on the hilt of her sword in a stance that might have made her father proud. Sandor saw the corner of Sansa’s mouth twitch in amusement as she regarded the younger girl warmly, and he wondered if she was thinking of Arya, too.

‘Indeed,’ Sansa nodded, face schooled once more into an emotionless mask. ‘I’m sure you will all be aware of what I speak; his indiscretions are not exactly… discrete. Harry has now fathered two bastards since coming to Winterfell that I know of. I expect there are more. His behaviour is a disgrace to his position and his person, and by extension, to myself and the noble name of Stark.’

There was a rumble of agreement from the small gathering. Sandor remained silent – all his energy was focussed on appearing disinterested.

‘I take great pride in bearing the name of Stark, as did my father, and his father before him,’ Sansa went on, voice swelling. ‘And I will not have their ancient bloodline and the seat of Winterfell, hard won from the Boltons by the men of the North and the Vale, tarnished by a philanderer who cannot hold true to his wedding vows.’

Clearly moved, the Greatjon stamped his foot and cried, ‘aye!’

Lyanna and Royce both echoed him, but Sandor could not speak. He was frozen in disbelief at the little bird’s boldness. Sansa might follow the Old Gods, but he had no doubt that she had been wed to Harry under the Faith of the Seven. Sandor did not know of any way in which a marriage could be annulled once consummated, and short of having Harry take the black there were few other grounds on which to end a marriage. Perhaps he should have pushed the little blonde sod off the Maester’s Tower to start with, and saved Sansa the risk of whatever she was about to do.

‘Lord Royce,’ Sansa was saying now, addressing the man to Sandor’s left. ‘Your guidance has been invaluable to me, and your men fought bravely to reclaim Winterfell. Tell me, where does their allegiance lie?’

‘My Lady, my loyalty was to old Jon Arryn. The Vale has known no true Defender since his death; Baelish was a snake, Robert Arryn sickly and weak, and the Hardyng boy has more interest in chasing skirt than ruling,’ Royce paused to spit on the ground, then fixed Sansa with a hard gaze. ‘House Arryn is dead. Perhaps it’s time we looked to someone else to lead us.’

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell 'em, Sansa!

Sandor stood, stricken, and listened to the plan unfolding around him. The Greatjon was speaking now, his voice a deep rumble in the silence of the clearing.

‘My Lady, with the power of the North and the Vale behind you, you’d command more men than any of the Starks before you. More than enough to reckon with the Lannisters,’ his meaty hands curled into fists as he spat the name. ‘Those inbred bastards slaughtered your family, and took your homelands. I say we make them pay.’

‘The North remembers,’ chimed in Lyanna, her voice so strong for one so small.

‘Aye!’ the Greatjon boomed. ‘I followed your brother into battle, my Lady, and I’d do it all again for you.’

Sandor caught the flicker of some deep emotion in Sansa’s eyes then, though she tried to remain impassive. She nodded once to the Greatjon, then turned her gaze to Royce.

‘What say you, Lord Royce?’

‘We knights of the Vale have no great love for the Lannisters, and King’s Landing is a nest of vipers, to be sure,’ he spoke in a measured tone, as if carefully considering each word. ‘I will speak to the other lords, my Lady. The Corbrays and the Hunters will come easily, and then it is but a matter of persuasion.’

‘But what say _you_ ,’ Sansa asked pointedly, taking a step forward.

Royce regarded her for a long moment before a jovial smile split his face. ‘Lady Sansa, never have I seen a person so fit to rule – woman or no. It would be an honour to serve you as my Queen.’

Sansa gave the grizzled old man a warm look, and Sandor’s mouth finally caught up to his brain.

‘What of the boy?’ he barked. Four pairs of eyes turned to him, but he was looking only at Sansa.

‘He has broken a sacred vow, dishonouring me and betraying my trust,’ she said, and though her voice rang loud and clear Sandor at last felt that she was speaking only to him. ‘I am not Cersei Lannister. I will not stand by while my husband fathers bastards left and right. He will be given a fair trial, and if he is found guilty – which I do not doubt, considering the amount of witnesses and evidence that stand against him – he will be allowed to take the black. I will, of course, provide for the mothers of his children; I do not intend to leave them destitute. Once Harry has been removed from his position, Lord Royce,’ she nodded to the man in question, ‘will be named Protector of the Vale.’

Sandor saw the pieces moving in his mind, as if watching a game of cyvasse. Had the little bird schemed this up all on her own? He couldn’t help but feel impressed. Once Royce was installed as Protector of the Vale it was only a matter of time before the Lords of the Vale were kneeling at Sansa’s feet. Having Harry take the black was a clever trick – it absolved their marriage, but kept her hands clean and her honour intact. And once all the pieces were in place, Sansa would be free to… to what? To marry him?

 

Sandor’s mouth went dry as he struggled with this new concept. It was what he had wanted all along; for the little bird to be his, and his alone. But now she would be Queen, and how in the Seven Hells could he, a broken old dog with a lame leg and a foul mouth, ever presume to stand beside her? Sandor blinked, and met Sansa’s gaze again. He saw her eyes narrow infinitesimally, and wondered whether she could sense his turmoil.

His suspicion was confirmed moments later, when she raised her pale hands to dismiss their little assembly.

‘Thank you for your counsel, my friends,’ she said, looking around at each of them. ‘We will meet again in due course. Clegane, if you wouldn’t mind escorting me to my chambers?’

Sandor nodded, and watched as the others filed past. They looked almost comical, two huge men and one tiny girl – but Sandor reminded himself that Lyanna, just like Arya, had as much courage as both grizzled old warriors put together.

 

Sandor offered Sansa his arm when she approached, and they lingered at the edge of the clearing as they waited until the small party was out of earshot. At last, when the Greatjon’s heavy footfalls had faded away, Sansa turned her face towards him.

‘Was it too much?’ she asked, a faint hint of amusement in her tone. Here in the dark, with the fog swirling around her skirts, she looked almost otherworldly.

Sandor sighed, and shook his head. ‘No, little bird, it’s just what you deserve,’ he grunted, and began pulling her in the direction of the gate, intent on taking her back to her rooms before she could chirp at him anymore. Something heavy was settling in his chest, and he was afraid that she was about to open him up and see what it was. She stopped him, though, just as he knew she would, digging her heels into the soft earth and pulling him around to face her.

‘You’re not happy,’ she surmised. ‘I thought you’d be happy. This means we can be together.’

‘Does it?’ Sandor asked, bitterly.

Sansa blinked. ‘Of course. What in the Seven Hells do you think this is all for?’

‘To make you a queen. Aye, and so you should be. You’re a right regal little lady, always have been.’

She was angry now, and Sandor didn’t blame her.

‘Gods, Sandor, does anything on this earth please you?’ she hissed, giving him a little shove.

‘Aye,’ Sandor allowed, mind wandering for just a moment to that little clearing in the copse outside of Winterfell.

‘I thought this was what you wanted.’

‘Sansa,’ Sandor took her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. She had got it out of him after all, and he had always been powerless to stop her. ‘Don’t you see? When you’re Queen, you’ll be further from my grasp than ever. What did you think, that we’d be wed?’

He scoffed, and she shrank back, hurt. Sandor hated to see that, but he kept going, because he was a horrible bastard and he couldn’t stop himself. ‘A dog can’t marry a queen, little bird. Perhaps you’re still the same daft creature you were in King’s Landing, after all.’

 

For the second time, Sandor Clegane experienced the searing pain of Sansa Stark’s open palm colliding with his cheek. The slap rang loud in the silence of the wood, and her eyes were twin fires in her face as she glared up at him.

‘You’re the daft creature, Sandor Clegane,’ she snapped. ‘And if you continue to insist on calling yourself a dog, perhaps it is time I treat you as my hound and command you to heel. You _will_ marry me. And as King Consort you _will_ take my name, and you _will_ give me many children and we _will_ live a long and happy life together. Is that understood?’

Without waiting for an answer, Sansa lifted her skirts to her ankles, turned on her heel and marched out of the Godswood, leaving Sandor staring after her, stunned.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor reflects - a short and angsty chapter

Sansa did not come to him again, after that. At first, Sandor was relieved, free of the terrifying sensation of being stripped bare by those piercing blue eyes. It was not the fucking that worried him; his sexual desire for her was an animal thing, with its own beating heart and primal hunger, desperate to devour her, to please and to be pleased. That in itself was uncomplicated. It was the aftermath, when she lay in his arms and whispered words that tugged at his heart and tore him open, when she looked at him with that knowing gaze that both infuriated and captivated him, that Sandor was filled with passions too complex and raw to bear. He both loathed and craved those moments, and always at play inside him was an exhausting tug of war, a push-pull of ego and emotion that was driving him to distraction.

 

The relief of those first few days of solitude quickly gave way to longing. He felt like some wounded creature slinking in the shadows, desperate to walk in the light but afraid that the sun would burn him. That was Sansa; she was the sun, and at times he felt like the moon, chasing her in an endless orbit, and longing to share the sky with her. He wanted her so badly that the pain of her absence felt physical – an ache in his chest like the squeezing of a fist around his heart. To make matters worse, she seemed to be everywhere; in the kitchens, when he came down to collect his wine ration, she was often the topic of discussion amongst the scullions, and when he trained his men in the afternoons, he would see her on the battlements, deep in conversation with Royce. She was in the forge when he came to have his sword sharpened, chatting with the blacksmith. And when he went to brush down Stranger, one morning almost a week after their meeting in the Godswood, Sansa was there too, coming back from a ride. She would not speak to him, and his damned pride wouldn’t allow him to approach her, though deep down he knew he owed her that much. Sansa had risked everything for a chance at a future with him, because that was what he had wanted; and he had mocked her for it. Cruelty and bitterness had always been his armour, and at the time it had felt easier than admitting the truth – that he was absolutely fucking terrified.

 

Frustrated, Sandor saddled Stranger and took the huge black stallion out beyond the walls of Winterfell, riding him hard through the countryside in search of quiet and seclusion. Sometime after noon he stopped at a stream, dismounting and letting his horse drink of the icy cold water while he sat on a large, flat rock, warmed by the watery sunlight. Sandor watched the water play over pebbles on the streambed, worn smooth by time, and began to dissect his fear.

He had never expected to take a wife. He might have wanted to, once, back when his face was whole and his notion of matrimony was only a child’s misinformed fantasy. That dream had died, though, along with many others, and since then he had been resigned to a solitary life. Things were easier that way – if you didn’t care, you couldn’t be hurt, and if he had come to forget that in his adult life, his experiences with both Stark girls had served as a timely reminder. Love made a man weak, vulnerable; Sandor had seen it before. It clouded logic and addled the brain.

But it was not only that knowledge that filled him with dread as he contemplated his relationship with Sansa. Sandor knew how wedding vows went, more or less, though he had never said them himself; ‘ _I am hers, and she is mine_ ’. Aye, that was love, wasn’t it? Giving yourself over, all of yourself, forever.

But how could he give all of himself to Sansa, when he was only half a man?

When Sandor Clegane caught his reflection in a looking glass, he saw a broken man. He would never admit it to a single soul, but the journey of his life had not been an easy one, and along the road he had been forced to throw away the things that weighed him down. Empathy, kindness, patience. All sacrifices he had made, and all things that Sansa deserved. He had nothing left to give her that she could ever want. Sandor did not know what she saw in him, or what foolishness drove her to respond as she had to his damned letter; but it could only end in disappointment, because he was not capable of tenderness. In demanding that she leave her husband, Sandor had asked her for something he could never hope to have. He remembered her forceful little speech in the Godswood, and a sad smile tugged at his ruined mouth. _Silly little bird_. She was blind to the blackness of his heart, and Sandor knew then that he needed to tear the veil from her eyes and end this foolishness once and for all.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALL POPPIN OFF YO

Back at Winterfell, Sandor barely had the patience to brush Stranger down and feed and water the beast before hurrying to Sansa’s chambers. The sun was dipping low now, and soon the dinner bell would ring – he did not have long, but he had to confront her before he lost his nerve. He still did not know exactly what he would say to her, and hoped that perhaps the right words would come in the moment; then almost laughed aloud at himself at the absurdity of such a thought. There were no right words for what he was about to do.

 

At the door to Sansa’s rooms, one of the Mormont men was standing guard. Sandor greeted him with a nod, then rasped, ‘I need to speak to Lady Sansa.’

The guard eyed him coolly, and Sandor allowed himself a brief fantasy of smashing his broad Northern face against the stone wall.

‘The Lady’s not to be disturbed.’

‘Urgent business,’ Sandor grunted, unable to stop his hands from balling into fists. The Mormont noticed, and opened his mouth to deliver a sharp reply, when the door swung open behind him. Sansa stood in the doorway, stony-faced and dressed in her cloak.

‘Clegane,’ her voice was impassive, unreadable, but when she looked him in the eye a shiver chased down Sandor’s spine. ‘I was about to go down to the Great Hall. Will this take long?’

‘No, m’Lady,’ Sandor managed, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth with no small degree of difficulty. He could feel his courage deflating inside him as if it were a tangible thing, replaced just as quickly by the desperate desire to take her in his arms, and he wondered how in Seven Hells such a little woman could bring him to his knees with only a word.

She turned to her guard, and told him, ‘you may go down to eat. Clegane will escort me to the Great Hall when our business is concluded.’

‘As you wish, Lady Sansa,’ the Mormont’s tone was clipped with displeasure, and he shot Sandor a parting glare as he turned to go. Many of the Northmen still distrusted him.

‘Come in,’ Sansa gestured to Sandor to follow her into the room. He did so with trepidation, heart leaping as he noticed that her braids exposed the milk-white skin behind her ears and barely trusting himself to follow through with his own half-hatched plan. Sansa closed the door behind him, saying, ‘you said it was urgent?’

‘Aye,’ he rasped, deciding that the less he bandied words with her the better. ‘Little bird, you have to stop this fucking madness.’

‘Madness?’ she repeated, blinking.

‘I can’t give you what you want,’ Sandor ran a hand through his long hair distractedly, fingers catching in the tangles caused by a day of horse-riding. His scars showed, but he didn’t care. _Let her see_.

‘And why not?’ Sansa asked him mildly, leaning against the edge of her desk in a manner that was far too casual for Sandor’s liking.

‘I’m not… Fucking Hells, Sansa, I’m a bastard. I’m a cunt. I’m not your fucking Florian.’

‘No. No, you’re not. You’re my Sandor.’

Sansa rolled his name across her tongue like it was something holy, and fuck him if it didn’t make his heart wrench. His feet moved across the rich pile of the carpet of their own accord, and he came to her, hands wrapping around her arms as he drank in the lines of her face, the shades of blue in her irises.

‘Little bird,’ Sandor was begging now, choking out the words. ‘You’re tearing me apart.’

Her hands came up to cup his face, so tender and gentle against his skin. Her thumb caressed the ruin of his cheekbone, and though he could barely feel it through the scars it was enough to make him want to cry.

‘Sandor,’ Sansa whispered, pulling him down until their foreheads touched. ‘I want you more than anything, just as you are. But I can’t make you give yourself to me.’

She sighed, and her breath was a warm kiss across Sandor’s lips before she began to speak again. ‘This is bigger than both of us now. All I wanted was the lords’ support to get rid of Harry – I never thought they’d name me Queen. But now I have a chance to free the North, and I have to do it, for the sake of my family and my people.’

Sansa drew back and fixed him with an earnest gaze, before leaning in to press her mouth to his for a moment, chaste and sweet and all too brief. ‘I love you, Sandor. But if you won’t stand by my side,’ she told him, ‘I’ll stand alone.’

And then she was gone, her door closing behind her with an air of finality. Sandor reeled. The impossibility of her; the strength, the defiance, the infuriating stubbornness! Too late, he remembered that he was supposed to be escorting Sansa to dinner, and hurried after her.

 

Sandor arrived in the Great Hall only moments after she did, and intended only to stay for a few moments to avoid suspicion from the Mormont before slipping away to his chambers to chew on all that had just transpired. However, something about the atmosphere in the room stopped him; there was a palpable tension, an electric hum in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looked at Sansa, and saw her standing at her usual place at the high table, flanked on either side by Lyanna Mormont and Bronze Yohn Royce. The Greatjon stood behind her, a protective presence. Sandor held his breath and waited for Sansa to sit down.

That was when he realised that no food had been served. That was odd; ale and wine had been brought forth, but the room was oddly quiet. Indeed, the loudest voice in the hall was that of Harry himself, who was sitting amongst some of his own men with a serving girl on his knee, laughing at his own bawdy joke. Sandor followed Sansa’s steely gaze, and saw that she was watching him like a hawk, as were Lyanna, Royce, the Greatjon, and just about every other lord and lady in the room. Sandor edged along the wall, bringing himself closer to the high table, one hand going instinctually to the pommel of his sword. Not wanting to draw Sansa’s attention, he came to a halt just to the right of the dais, and there he waited, skin alive with gooseflesh.

 

Sandor’s anticipation was beginning to reach fever pitch when Sansa suddenly raised her hands and clapped once, the sound echoing from the high, cavernous ceiling. Silence fell abruptly, though Harry continued to chuckle for some seconds. Sandor’s jaw tightened. The little cunt had no respect.

‘My lords and ladies,’ Sansa began, an unmistakeable edge to her voice. ‘Before we dine, there is a matter that must be addressed. There is one among us who has broken a sacred vow; who has misled, cheated and betrayed me, and must now answer for his crimes. Harrold Hardyng,’ Sansa raised the volume of her voice imperceptibly, and Harry, who was still busy fumbling with the bodice of the girl on his lap, finally looked up at her. ‘You have brought dishonour on myself and my House; you have fathered bastards under this very roof, desecrating the sacred bond of marriage in blatant defiance of the Seven. How do you answer these charges?’

Harry stared blankly at Sansa for several long seconds. The serving girl, unnerved, wriggled from his grasp, and every pair of eyes in the room fixed on him, awaiting his reply. Sandor tightened his grip on his sword, taking in the reactions of Harry’s men. They looked puzzled, but not angry. Yet.

And then Harry began to laugh. It was a theatrical display, with much clutching of his sides and banging of his fist on the table, and when he at last wiped the tears from his eyes and looked back at his wife, he cried, ‘Whoever heard of a woman putting her lord husband on trial for having a bit on the side? Preposterous!’

Harry dissolved into giggles again – though Sandor noticed he was the only one laughing – and Sansa looked murderous.

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for some canon-typical violence in this chapter. If blood squicks you out read with caution!

 Harry was still laughing when, mere moments later, Symond Templeton, who was seated a little further down the table, stood up abruptly and strode to over to him. Though thin and more than a little threadbare, Ser Symond’s look of pure rage as his hand descended on Harry’s shoulder in a vice-like grip was enough to silence the younger man. Sansa nodded once to Ser Symond, as if in thanks, and Sandor felt a hot stab of jealousy.

‘Lord Hardyng,’ Sansa began again, her tone level even as her eyes threw sparks. Sandor didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so furious. ‘Will you answer the charges, or shall we bring forth the witnesses?’

There was movement, then, at the back of the Hall. A servants’ entrance opened, and in filed a motley assembly; the cook, a stable hand, two serving girls clutching swaddled bairns and looking frightened, a maid and the Maester. Harry turned to look, and Sandor saw with a savage satisfaction how the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks and the last of his smug smile slipped away. Harry’s blonde head whipped back around to glare at Sansa as he shook off Ser Symond’s hand.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Harry spat. ‘I am your _lord_.’

‘You are _a_ lord,’ Sansa replied, coolly. ‘Though I doubt that there is a man or woman in this room who has seen you act like one.’

Incensed, Harry leapt to his feet. ‘Knights of the Vale! You will escort me from Winterfell at once. I will not suffer this mummer’s farce a moment longer.’

His eyes swept the room, but no man rose to his order. Harry’s own men looked around at each other, unsure, and a few raised their hands half-heartedly to their weapons, then seemed to think better of it and remained seated. Sandor stepped away from the wall, body wound tight as a spring – but he needn’t have bothered. Harry stood alone, and his handsome face began to crumple in panic.

‘You can’t do this,’ he panted, then tried a different tactic, smoothing out his countenance and gazing up at Sansa beseechingly. ‘My love, please…’

‘Enough,’ Sansa snapped. ‘Lord Hardyng, how do you plead? Know this, if you are found guilty you will be escorted this very evening to Castle Black.’

Harry’s lip began to quiver, and then he seemed to come to a decision. He set his jaw, drew himself to his full – and unimpressive – height, and said, ‘Very well. I demand a trial by combat.’

 

A buzz of murmured voices filled the hall, and Sandor could have sworn that Sansa actually rolled her eyes. The tension in the room was now so thick that Sandor could have cut it with his dirk.

‘I will fight for my honour,’ Harry called over the rising clamour. ‘And, since my sweet wife cannot raise a sword against me, she must name a champion.’

There was a moment of silence, then, in which every man in the room sized up the young blonde lord. There was no denying that Harry was good with a weapon; he was lithe and fit, and many of the lords present were on the wrong side of forty. Sandor’s mind was elsewhere, however. He already had the measure of Harry – had done from the moment he set eyes on the little cunt. No, Sandor was thinking about what Sansa had said earlier that evening.

‘ _I want you more than anything, just as you are_.’

He wanted to curse her foolishness, but perhaps she deserved more credit than he gave her. Perhaps she saw him clearly after all – more so than anyone else.

‘ _I love you, Sandor._ ’

She was not a young girl anymore; she was old and wise enough to know her own heart. And didn’t he love her, too, just as much as his shrivelled heart was able? Hadn’t he always?

Sandor looked over at Sansa, at the fine, regal lines of her profile, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with passion. Aye, he loved her – loved her more than anything on the Gods’ green earth, and he knew then that was the only thing that mattered, the rest of their troubles be damned.

It had only taken him the briefest of flashes to reach his decision, and he needed to act fast before some other lord spoke up. In three great strides he stood before her, drawing his sword as he went. Sansa looked down at him, and if she was surprised, she didn’t show it – her expression grew immediately warm and fond, and it was enough to erase any lingering doubts that Sandor might be nursing in the shadowy recesses of his mind.

‘Lady Sansa,’ he rasped. ‘Let me have the honour.’

The tumult of voices began again, in which many of the knights and lords present began to protest and offer their swords instead. But Sansa’s eyes never left Sandor’s, and when she raised her hands to call for quiet, he could have sworn she showed him the smallest of smiles.

‘Clegane,’ she began, for he was no knight and no lord and she’d long since stopped trying to call him _ser_. ‘It is you who would honour me, and I thank you for it.’

Her voice grew louder, more commanding. ‘Sandor Clegane, I name you my champion. May you bring justice in the name of House Stark.’

Sandor nodded to Sansa once, and she returned the gesture. He turned to face his opponent, and was grimly pleased to see that Harry looked ready to mess his breeches. _Looks like I get to kill you after all, boy_ , Sandor thought savagely as he began to advance. There was a large enough space between the tables for what needed to be done, but even so the onlookers began to scramble out of the way, gathering around the walls. Sandor’s reputation preceded him. Harry drew his blade, and Sandor ran a quick mental check over all the faults he had seen in the boy’s swordplay in the training yard. Overconfident, with a penchant for showmanship and a weak parry, Harry was no difficult foe. Sandor had bested far superior soldiers countless times over his years of fighting; Beric Dondarrion and his flaming fucking sword, for one. Compared to that, this would be a walk in the damned Godswood.

 

Harry took up a defensive stance, knees bent and braced with his free arm thrust out to the side to keep his balance. _Stupid cunt._ With his size and limited strength, Harry would do far better on the offensive, keeping Sandor moving to tire him out. But Sandor humoured him, landing a few heavy blows to test the strength of the boy’s steel. It was a fine blade, and strong; but the same could not be said for Harry’s arm. The boy began to back up beneath the force of Sandor’s strikes, and when he tripped on a cobblestone and almost lost his balance there was a ripple of laughter around the edges of the Hall. Harry began to dodge and dance, then, hoping no doubt to avoid Sandor’s blade altogether. But the boy was predictable, and after a few reiterations of the same routine, when he went left, so did Sandor.

The blade slipped beneath Harry’s plate and cut into the soft flesh of his hip, and Sandor felt the hard shock of bone through the steel before he quickly withdrew. There was a spray of rich velvet red across the flagstones, and Harry screamed like a panicked horse. A collective gasp went up from the audience, whilst Sandor took the opportunity to chance a glance at Sansa. She was white-faced, her delicate little hands gripped the edges of the high table as if clinging on for dear life. Beside her, Lyanna Mormont was cheering, but Sansa was silent, and watching him closely. When Sandor’s eyes met hers, she nodded imperceptibly, and he turned back to Harry, strength renewed tenfold.

The boy had reeled back to slump over the table behind him, sword dangling from his right hand as his left attempted to stem the bleeding.

‘Get up, you slimy little bastard,’ Sandor growled, tiring quickly of the boy’s theatrics. Sandor had received worse wounds in the training yard.

Harry’s free arm went to the tabletop to steady himself, and as he twisted his body and made ready to stand, he shot Sandor a filthy glare.

‘Fuck you, dog,’ the boy hissed. In a lightening quick motion, he grasped a goblet from the table and threw its contents in Sandor’s face.

A roar of disapproval went up from the crowd. The acrid wine burned Sandor’s eyes, blinding him momentarily, and as he blinked the thin red liquid away, Harry’s sword came down hard on his shoulder.

The blow was misplaced, glancing off Sandor’s pauldron. But for the shock of the impact, he was unhurt. He was, however, as mad as a bull. With a roar that echoed back to him from the great ceiling, Sandor pivoted and began to rain down blows on the younger man with such force that he saw dents forming in Harry’s blade.

‘Dirty… cheating… cunt,’ Sandor grunted, each word punctuated with a clash of steel against steel. Harry cowered beneath his wrath, and when he turned his face away – no doubt for fear of having his pretty face cut – Sandor took the opportunity to strike low, this time driving the point of his sword through a weak point in the boy’s armour and penetrating his ribcage. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate. Sandor’s left hand came up to grasp Harry’s right wrist, and he twisted savagely until Harry dropped his sword with a pained yelp.

Sandor kicked the blade away as his opponent fell to his knees, breathing raggedly. There was silence in the hall again, and Sandor could hear the roaring of his own blood in his ears as he advanced on Harry. His instincts told him to run the boy through and be done with it, but something gave him pause. Bending down, he took a fistful of Harry’s hair and yanked his head up, glaring into his eyes.

‘You’ll apologise,’ Sandor ground out, twisting the boy’s head around to face Sansa. ‘to Lady Sansa.’

Harry said nothing, only glowered up at Sansa, who stared coldly back. Sandor shook him roughly.

‘Apologise,’ he repeated.

More silence.

Across the room, Sansa moved suddenly, walking with impossible grace around the high table and stepping down from the dais to cross the hall. The onlookers watched her approach with baited breath, and the only sounds were here muffled footsteps on the stone and Harry’s laboured panting. Sansa came to a halt three feet from her fallen husband, and looked down at him with such loathing that Sandor could have sworn he felt heat radiate from her gaze.

‘I am waiting,’ she said coldly.

There was a long pause in which they stared at one another, and then Harry spat on the ground at her feet.

Sandor did not wait for her permission, but Sansa must have anticipated him, because as his blade opened the boy’s throat she took two steps back, saving her skirts from the wide arc of Harrold Hardyng’s lifeblood as his body crumpled, motionless, to the floor.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The make-up sex you've all been waiting for!

Two men carried Hardyng’s body from the Great Hall, and his blood was hastily cleaned away by servants as the assembled crowd slowly settled back in their seats. In the confusion, Sandor and Sansa stole a private moment, half-hidden in the shadows by the dais.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured to him, hand a warm, comforting squeeze at his wrist. ‘You were very brave.’

‘A dog doesn’t need courage to chase off rats, remember?’ though the muscles were unfamiliar with the movement, Sandor gave her a small smile, and she returned it, a faraway look in her eyes as if she, too, were remembering the bread riots and their strained conversation in the Red Keep after he had saved her life.

‘I remember. You really must stop killing men for me, Clegane,’ she teased, frowning in mock severity.

‘There’s far worse reasons for killing, little bird,’ Sandor rasped, and as she turned to take her place at the high table he caught her arm, whispering her name as he pulled her back for a moment. ‘You won’t ever stand alone,’ he told her, and in the darkness his hand came up to caress the soft waves of her hair.

Tears gathered in Sansa’s eyes then, making her pupils look impossibly large as she turned her face up towards him and caught his hand in her own, holding it for just a second before disappearing in a flurry of skirts. Sandor’s heart was in his throat, hammering with the boldness of what they had just done as he watched Sansa assume her place, already composed, the perfect picture of poise and grace.

‘My lords and ladies,’ Sansa called, and the hum of conversation died abruptly. ‘Should any of you wish to return to your homes in the Vale, I will provide whatever supplies you may need for the road. If, however, you choose to stay at Winterfell, you will be most welcome, and I will see to it that every comfort you desire is afforded to you.’

A cheer went up from the crowd – Sandor did not imagine that too many of the lords and knights gathered in the Great Hall much fancied the thought of travelling through the Mountains of the Moon now that the hill tribes had been equipped with steel by the Imp and the chill of winter was in the air. Half of the castles in the Vale would be snowed in within a year, and Winterfell, with its hot springs and glass gardens, was a much more favourable option. Sansa smiled, and sat, but before the attention of the audience could wander the Greatjon himself began to speak.

 

‘Lady Sansa,’ he began, pacing in front of the high table as his booming voice filled the hall, firm and authoritative. ‘Has shown strength and wisdom far beyond her years. It is because of her,’ he pointed a gnarled finger at Sansa, who regarded him calmly. ‘That we are gathered here, that Winterfell has been rebuilt, and the North has been freed from the scourge of the Boltons. Her father was a great man, and her brother, too – but they are dead, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to kneel to the House that had them murdered in cold blood!’

The hall erupted in cheers and shouts, and Sandor saw that the men of the Vale were joining in the wild hollering of the Northmen.

‘We named your brother King in the North,’ the Greatjon called to Sansa over the hammering of a hundred fists on wooden tables. ‘I think it’s time we crowned a Queen.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

The excitement of a fight to the death and a new monarch all in one evening meant that the inhabitants of Winterfell celebrated long into the night. The lords and knights of the Vale had all bent the knee, making Sansa the reigning sovereign of two of the Seven Kingdoms. Ale and wine flowed freely, and the Greatjon was seen weeping with joy as he confessed to anyone who would listen that he had known Sansa was fit to be Queen from the moment he’d laid eyes on her – though she was barely six months old at the time.

Sandor himself was immensely popular for the first time in his life, not counting the day of the King’s Tourney when he’d quickly stamped out any attempts at congratulations or friendship with a harsh word and the occasional threat of bodily harm. The Northmen loved him now, it seemed, and even the Mormont guard who had been so cold to him only hours earlier came to clap Sandor heartily on the back and offer him his wine skin.

But tonight, Sandor was exercising restraint. His whole body was attuned to Sansa’s every movement as he waited for her to excuse herself from the table. His lust for her was all-consuming at the best of times, and now that his blood was up after a fight he was positively burning with need. He noticed everything – the way her hair fell over one shoulder when she turned to speak with Lyanna, the subtle blush of a wine stain on her mouth; the blue veins under the pale skin of her wrists, just visible when she raised her goblet to her lips and her sleeve shifted, the neat curve of her waist where her gown was laced up tight. Sandor was hard as iron, and he wanted his woman.

 

At last, when the hour grew late, Sansa stood and bid the assembly goodnight. Another cheer went up for the Queen of the North and the Vale as Royce escorted her from the room, and she beamed, bright as the sun.

Sandor waited what seemed like hours before following her, though it was likely only a matter of minutes. He saw Royce coming down the stairs from her quarters, and shrank into the shadows until the older man had passed before taking the steps two at a time and rapping sharply on Sansa’s chamber door. She answered it immediately, face flushed with the glow of success, and the mere sight of her was enough to make Sandor groan.

‘Sansa,’ he croaked, and she took a handful of his tunic and yanked him into the room, slamming the door behind him. How different Sandor’s feelings were from the last time he was here, earlier in the evening – gone was the desperation of his own unshakeable self-loathing, his fear of the unknown. He was ready to give all of himself to her; and though he didn’t think that was much, she seemed to want it, and he could not deny Sansa Stark anything. Driven by frenzied passion, he turned her and pushed her back against the stone wall, kissing her mouth until she opened up to him like a flower and he pushed his tongue against hers, swallowing the soft little gasp she made. Sandor brought a hand up to encircle her throat – not a threat, but rather a gentle, possessive gesture of longing. Sansa’s pulse beat a frantic tattoo against his fingertips, and when Sandor came up for air he whispered to her, ‘you’re mine, little bird.’

Seemingly lost for words, Sansa nodded frantically, arms tightening about his neck. Sandor responded immediately and grasped her thighs to hoist her up his body, pinning her against the wall as he pulled her skirts aside and pressed his hard length against her centre. Sansa mewled, writhing against him, and in his impatience Sandor drew the short knife he kept in his belt to cut the stays of her bodice. He ripped at the fabric, and her breasts came free in his hands, so soft, the nipples twin peaks of rigid, puckered flesh. He kneaded her there as they kissed, and was rewarded by a murmured expletive that had him rolling his hips to grind his erection harder against her.

‘Are you wet for me, Sansa?’ Sandor asked her, short of breath as he slipped one hand between them and pulled her smallclothes aside.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ she breathed. Her head lolled back against the hard stone, and Sandor could have sworn he felt her shiver in anticipation. ‘I’ve been wet since I saw you draw your sword.’

Her words, and the evidence of their truth when Sandor ran one thick finger along her slick cunt, drew another moan from him. ‘Aye,’ he rasped, toying with the wetness that pooled between her folds. ‘You’re fucking soaked, little bird.’ Unable to wait, he found her entrance and thrust his middle finger inside, making her cry out as her muscles gripped him tight. Gently, Sandor withdrew the digit before repeating the action. He loved the way her eyelids fluttered when he did this, and picked up the pace a little until she was squirming in his arms before suddenly pulling away.

Sansa gazed up at him, and when she opened her mouth to protest Sandor gave in to a wicked impulse and slipped the finger between her plump lips.

‘See how sweet you taste,’ he growled, and Sansa hummed as she wrapped her mouth around him and licked him clean. The sensation of her tongue against his finger made Sandor ache to feel it elsewhere. Before he could think better of the notion he had lifted her away from the wall and carried her to the hearth, where a fire burned low and hot. Sansa slid down his body to plant her feet on the floor, her bodice a ruin that bared her breasts in a most alluring fashion.

‘Sansa,’ he began tentatively, reaching out to caress the pale flesh. ‘I want you to suck me.’

Bless her heart, but his little bird did not hesitate to drop to her knees before him, and her slender fingers were already making short work of his breeches before Sandor had time to thank his lucky stars.

The sensation of Sansa’s hand wrapping around his engorged cock as it came free of his smallclothes was enough to make Sandor want to weep, painfully hard as it had been all night. But when she wrapped her mouth around his length – or as much of it as she could take, at least – he had to fight not to sob with pleasure. It felt so good that he couldn’t resist burying his hands in her hair to cradle her head, gently guiding her movements as she set up a rhythm that was agonizingly gratifying.

‘Fuck, Sansa,’ he whispered encouragingly, and she hummed around his shaft before drawing back to run her tongue experimentally around the sensitive flesh of his head. ‘ _Yes_ ,’ Sandor gasped, then came abruptly to his senses. Much more of this and he would be of no further use to her for some time.

‘Enough,’ the command came out gruffer than Sandor meant, but Sansa didn’t seem to care. He pulled her away by the hair firmly, coming down to join her on the floor as he yanked the remnants of her dress down her arms and shoulders until she was bare from the waist up. His bloodlust was making his movements urgent and rough, though from the sounds she made as he turned her and pushed her onto her hands and knees, Sandor knew that Sansa was enjoying it just as much, if not more than he was. He’d wanted to take her like this for a long time, but it had never felt quite right until now.

Sandor flipped her skirts up over her hips, and as she turned her head to shoot him a wicked grin he ran his rough hands up the smooth expanse of her thighs, ripping away her smallclothes when he reached her rear.

‘Mm,’ he hummed approvingly, then spanked her twice, once on each cheek, just as he had that first night she came to his rooms. Sansa exhaled with a soft _ah_ sound and arched her back. She was so responsive to his touch. ‘An ass worth killing for,’ he told her, giving her another slap. And then, because he couldn’t wait anymore, he spat in his hand, spread the moisture across the head of his cock, and thrust into her in one hard, fluid movement.

Sandor, having been in the company of soldiers for most of his life, had heard many names for this sexual position, and each was more crude than the last. But, on his knees behind Sansa, watching the firelight play across the rippling muscle of her back as she rolled her hips to meet each powerful thrust, he really did feel like an animal, driven by his own yearning and the desperate desire to bond with his mate. She was his, and he was hers. With that thought in mind, Sandor bent his body over hers, bringing his chest flush with her back, and pressed his mouth to her neck, tasting the salt of her. One arm came up to wrap around her chest, crushing her to him as the slick sounds of their coupling filled the room.

‘Mine,’ he whispered to her again, and as if triggered by the sound of his voice Sansa came apart in his arms, cunt flexing and tightening around his cock until he followed her there, her name on his lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever happened to being careful, Sandor? Hm?


End file.
